Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Read online

  A whistled melody drifted down the road towards Tol. It was poorly handled but Tol recognised the old Reve marching tune as a shadow disengaged itself from the wall ahead of them and stepped into the centre of the road, sword-point scraping along the cobbles.

  The guards came to a halt in front of the single ragged figure, the fingers round Tol’s arms biting deeper into his skin.

  ‘Stand aside,’ one of the pair in front of him said, ‘we’re on Lord Hafferkey’s business.’

  The whistling stopped and Kartane grinned. ‘That’s nice for you,’ he said. ‘That lad’s on the Reve’s business. Of course,’ he said with a placating gesture, ‘it might be you didn’t know that, so I’m going to give you a chance to let the boy go without anyone dying.’ He grinned. ‘I’m hoping you’ll choose the other option though.’

  The two guards ahead of Tol drew their swords. ‘Last chance,’ one of them said as Kartane stood there grinning broadly, leaning on his sword like a cane.

  ‘Good choice,’ he said as they took a step forward.

  Tol let himself go limp in the arms of his captors as he sensed the two men behind them step forward to stand beside the men holding him, ready to step forward and deal with Kartane if he wasn’t killed by the first. Four against one. He wondered how much Kartane had drunk.

  The leading pair took another step, and Kartane remained motionless, his grin fixed in place. Of all the men to come to my aid, Tol thought sourly, why does it have to be him? He’ll probably get us both killed.

  The guards took another step, the leftmost man bringing his sword up ready to strike. Kartane moved in a blur, his sword flicking into strike position and lancing out to sever the guard’s jugular. Now!

  Tol jerked his left arm, elbowing the man holding him in the gut then grabbing his balls and squeezing as hard as he could while he stamped on the foot of the the other guard. He heard a whistle behind him as his arms came free, dimly aware of the guards flanking his captors turning round to face the way they had come. Tol across his waist and drew his dagger with his left hand. He plunged it into the stomach of the guard to his left, still doubled over, his right hand grasping the sword of the man on his other side in an underhand grip and wrenching it from the scabbard as Tol lunged forward. He stepped back and slammed the sword back into its owner’s chest, releasing it as the man crumpled to the ground. Tol spun on his heel, hand on Illis’Andiev, but the remaining two guards were falling even as he drew, two dour looking knights standing in their place with blood on their blades. The whistle, he realised. Drew their attention and gave them just enough time to turn so they weren’t run through from behind.

  One of them had a similar face to Kartane, but his black hair was cropped short, his cheeks fuller. Sir Korwane, Tol realised. He looked altogether less insane than his brother, but that wasn’t saying much.

  ‘Tol Kraven, I presume?’ said Korwane.

  Tol nodded as Kartane stepped up to join him, pausing to deliver a killing blow to the first guard Tol had struck as he writhed on the cobbles. ‘Told you so,’ Kartane crowed as Tol let Illis’Andiev drop back into its scabbard.

  ‘You still got the book?’ Kartane asked, clapping a hand on Tol’s shoulder. ‘Good lad,’ he added when Tol nodded. ‘Best we get gone, the noise’ll bring more of the buggers.’

  The sound of footsteps pounding the cobbles was already drifting down the street towards them. ‘This way,’ Korwane pointed back down towards the distant docks. ‘We’ll lose them in the poor quarter.’

  A heavy-set Norvek knight came charging down the alley towards them. ‘There’s dozens of the bastards,’ he panted, falling into step beside Tol and the others as they began jogging down the slope away from the palace.

  ‘That’s my brother, Korwane,’ Kartane puffed as they ran. ‘The Meracian’s Isallien, and the fat man is Balvador. Meet the Seven.’ Kartane coughed as they spilled out back onto the main road. ‘Three of them, at least.’

  Korwane spun left, heading deeper into the city as the pounding feet drew closer behind them.

  ‘You’re all in danger,’ Tol panted.

  ‘Kartane told us,’ Isallien said, the thin-faced Meracian running easily beside him. ‘They already struck. Hafferkey’s been turned by the Gurdal, and his brother-in-law let an assassin into the cathedral.’

  Tol saw a patrol ahead, breaking into a run as they saw the knights racing towards them.

  ‘This way,’ Korwane called, darting right into a broad street. They raced downhill, the cobbles shifting under Tol’s feet as an out-of-breath Kartane cursed volubly beside him.

  ‘Bastard had better be there,’ he said between ragged breaths.

  ‘He’ll be there,’ Korwane assured him. ‘The king wouldn’t turn Valeron away.’

  ‘If I have to kill every guard in the city,’ Kartane panted, ‘he’ll be next.’

  Isallien chuckled as the knights thundered out of the street into a small square, a weathered marble statue of Sir Hunt Valeron marking the centre of a crossroads. Korwane brought them to halt at the statue’s feet. ‘Knights Reve,’ he yelled at the top of his lungs, ‘Aid the Seven!’

  The guards were nearly upon them now as they turned to face their pursuers. Tol saw half a dozen clogging the street, with at least a dozen more following hot on their heels. A glance to the right fork showed four more coming from that direction. Massively outnumbered, he thought, even by Reve standards.

  He heard a commotion behind, like a bar brawl just getting into full swing. He looked over his left shoulder and saw shapes moving behind the windows of the tavern, the creaking sign swinging in the wind naming it Ales of Salvation. The door opened and knights began pouring out, half a dozen of them joining Korwane and his companions: five Norvek knights and a Meracian who looked like the younger brother of Isallien.

  Kartane’s brother turned to face the newcomers and announced himself. ‘Their master has been turned by the demons,’ Korwane told them. ‘Stand with the Seven!’

  The knights moved swiftly, and formed a semi-circle around the statue to cover three of the roads leading into the crossroads, leaving only the southern route free. Korwane grabbed Tol’s arm, and pulled him out of the defensive line. ‘Get him out of here,’ he told his brother.

  ‘I can fight,’ Tol protested as Kartane pulled him further away. He caught a glimpse of three women running towards them from the left fork. Rachel? He recognised two other women with her: one of the pair who’d left the convent with the Rachel and the other, he realised a moment later, was Sir Brounhalk’s sister.

  ‘You’ve done well, lad,’ Kartane told him as they reached the southern end of the crossroads, ship masts looming in the distance. ‘We’ll hold them here, but the Truth can’t be risked.’

  ‘I want to stand with you!’

  ‘Stop whining, boy,’ Kartane snapped, ‘you know what’s at stake.’ Tol heard the first sounds of battle as Kartane led him past the Reve tavern on the corner. ‘Get the Truth safe,’ Kartane shouted over the din. ‘Find the Seven when it’s safe.’ He pointed down the road. ‘Go, your friend’s at the docks - the Moontide, she leaves at dusk.’

  Tol nodded, and turned away from the battle, stopping as Kartane’s grabbed his arm.

  ‘I got to know,’ the knight yelled in his ear, ‘did you screw the angel?’

  Tol shook his head. ‘Saved her though.’

  Kartane grinned and nodded towards the docks. ‘Go!’

  *

  Tol raced towards the docks, the screams of battle fading as his feet pounded the worn cobbles of Kron Vulder’s alleys. He followed the the narrow street, the few people he passed all trying to get as far away from the battle as possible. Finally, as the sounds of combat faded to a whisper, Tol stumbled out of an alley onto the waterfront. He stopped a moment to catch his breath, eyes searching the row of moored ships. They all looked pretty much the same, a long line of ships stretching to Tol’s left and a shorter row of ships on his right.

  Left or right
?

  Tol chose left, and made it a few yards before he heard footfalls. He glanced back and saw four guards emerging from an alley adjacent to the one he’d stumbled out from. They slewed to a halt, and saw him a moment later, all four breaking into a run.

  Oh, bugger.

  Tol took in a deep breath and ran for all he was worth, sprinting with the line of ships on his right, scanning their hulls for painted names.

  The guards were about two hundred yards behind him, and gaining fast, footfalls pounding hard. Please don’t be the last ship. There was no way Tol was going to reach the end of the docks, they’d catch him long before then. He raced past another hull, a small merchantman, and glanced back again. They’re gaining.

  Tol hurdled over a packing crate, adjusting his course to run around a shoulder high wall of them. He rounded the last one, slewing to a halt in front of nine grim-faced men readying to board a ship. Each wore a bright crimson strip of cloth around his left bicep. A giant of a man stood at their centre, long hair whipping round his face in the evening breeze.

  Kenzin Morrow, Tol realised.

  ‘Did Valdur really stab the demon?’ the warrior asked, bushy eyebrows knitting together.

  ‘The Sudalrese man?’

  The Band of Blood’s leader nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ Tol panted. ‘He saved the angel, bought me time to reach the demon.’

  ‘Stupid boy,’ the warrior grumbled, although his heart didn’t seem in it. He glanced round the corner of the crates. ‘Go, boy, we’ll take care of the guards.’ He reached forward and grabbed Tol’s shoulder, pulling him through the line of bodies as the rest of the Band drew weapons and met the charging patrol.

  ‘Why?’ Tol asked.

  ‘We lost a lot of men on this job,’ Morrow said, his voice low and dangerous. ‘But you buried the lad after he helped you, that’s why you get to live despite killin’ my men.’ He grinned. ‘Well, that and by killing that demon you got us out of a bad bind. Go on,’ he barked as the Band of Blood finished the last guard, ‘bugger off before I change my mind.’

  Tol dipped his head, and staggered away as the Band of Blood started looting the guards. ‘Well don’t just stand there,’ he heard Kenzin Morrow shout, ‘throw the bodies in the water.’

  The sky was growing darker, dusk descending. I have to find that ship, Tol thought as he ran on, past another merchantman, and another. He slowed as he passed the hulking form of a giant cog, his legs spent. And then he saw her, standing on the aft deck of a small, sleek single-masted trader. She was standing looking out over the docks, Stetch looming over her shoulder. Tol found a last burst of pace, turning onto the wooden finger that ran alongside the ship’s starboard flank.

  ‘Katarina,’ he shouted as he raced past the ascending anchor, the ship slowly drifting away from the docks.

  ‘Hurry!’ she called.

  Tol ran, reaching the lower rail of the mid-deck and hurling himself at it. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, arms and elbows cresting the top of the rail as Tol’s legs and torso thumped against the Moontide’s hull. He hung there, the last of his strength fading and the ache in his shoulder reigniting as his arms slowly began slipping back over the rail. He glanced down, and saw the lake’s clear surface below, the ship already gathering speed. He could feel himself slipping further, moments away from falling.

  One arm slid over the rail. He felt his other arm sliding over the wood.

  Stetch grabbed him at the last moment, and hauled Tol over the rail. He landed on the deck in an inelegant heap. He lay there panting for a moment and clambered to his feet to find Katarina right in front of him, pouting with her arms crossed.

  ‘I thought I’d take you up on your invitation,’ Tol said, too tired to even grin.

  Katarina looked up at him, not a trace of warmth or humour on her face at all. Perhaps I misjudged her, Tol thought. Suddenly this felt terribly wrong, his skin prickling with danger.

  She sighed, still pouting. ‘I’m sorry, Steven.’

  ‘The trouble with spies,’ the abbot had told him once, ‘is you can never trust them.’

  Something hard struck Tol from behind and he saw the deck rushing up to meet him, powerless to avoid it.

  ‘You could have caught him,’ he heard a peeved voice say as he fell to the deck, a final thought running through his mind as he struck and darkness claimed him.

  I have failed.

  Epilogue

  The door to the cabin opened slowly, and Tol knew it would be Katarina’s manservant. Tol had first woken two days earlier with a splitting headache, a bump on the back of his head, and a bruise on his face which suggested he had kissed the deck when Stetch had knocked him unconscious. Since then the Sworn man had been Tol’s only visitor, delivering meals and shovelling them down Tol’s gullet while resisting all of Tol’s attempts to engage him in conversation.

  Tol heard Stetch stomp into the cabin as he rolled over on the bunk just in time to see the diminutive form of Katarina slink inside a moment later, drifting towards the porthole with an unreadable expression on her face. She didn’t so much as glance at Tol, stepping up to the thick glass and peering out. She was quiet a long time, Stetch an immobile statue behind her.

  ‘When I invited you to visit,’ Katarina said with a faint trace of anger, ‘I did not mean you should bring half the city watch on your heels.’ She paused. ‘Well? Do you have nothing to say for yourself?’

  Tol remained silent until, finally, Katarina turned to look at him, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. ‘Stetch,’ she said quietly, ‘I do not remember telling you to gag him.’

  ‘Talks too much.’

  ‘True,’ she agreed, turning her attention back to Tol. ‘We have reached our destination,’ she said. ‘A large number of people are going to be looking for you right now, so if you want to stay alive I would seriously recommend doing exactly as you’re told and not speaking to anyone without my express instructions.’ She took a step forward and leaned over Tol, pulling the gag from his mouth. ‘Do you think you can manage that?’

  Tol drew in a deep, ragged breath, catching a hint of her musky scent. ‘You didn’t have to knock me out and tie me up.’

  ‘Oh, but I did. Had your arrival been discreet then – perhaps – it would not have been necessary. The captain is loyal to my father, but his men? I cannot trust that is so. Better for them to think you a captive, a prisoner I lured’ – Katarina said it in such a way as to sound positively carnal – ‘to our ship, than think the Black Duke freely aids the Reve.’ Katarina cocked her head to one side. ‘Or do you think it merits revealing the alliance between the Sworn and the Knights Reve just to appease your pride?’

  ‘No.’ Tol took a deep breath, relieved to be free of the gag. ‘Thank you for saving me.’

  At last she smiled, an embryonic, fragile thing. ‘To which occasion do you refer? On the North Road? In the duke’s castle when I distracted the guard long enough for you to slip into the chapel unseen? Or perhaps the warning I left at the inn beyond the Maw? Or the latest, stealing your ragged hide from under the noses of the city watch?’

  ‘The last, but thanks for the others, too.’ He grinned. ‘I think.’ I might just have swapped one danger for another, he thought, and at least with swords a man knows where he stands.

  ‘Stetch is going to untie your legs now. Keep the hood of your cloak up until we are away from the prying eyes of sailors. And remember to hold your tongue, otherwise your trip to my homeland will be exceedingly short.’ Katarina turned on her heel but stopped at the threshold of the cabin. She paused there but didn’t look back. ‘Is the angel dead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the demon?’

  ‘I killed it.’ Tol grinned. ‘Stetch was right: cut its head off.’

  He heard a soft chuckle as she left the room, Stetch remaining and staring thoughtfully at Tol. He seemed even more wary than usual. ‘It’s true,’ Tol assured the Sworn man, ‘but the difficulty is in staying alive long
enough to get that close.’ Tol shrugged where he lay. ‘That and getting your hands on an angel’s sword.’

  For a moment Tol thought the man was choking, but he realised it was a gruff, bonesaw chuckle, Stetch’s lips curled in a feral grimace. It was extremely disconcerting.

  The sun was setting as Tol shuffled onto the deck, Stetch breathing down his neck, and pushing Tol along to stand on the middle of the deck alongside Katarina. The Moontide was approaching harbour, a city sprawling in front of them at the base of a crescent-shaped cliff. It was like nothing Tol had ever seen before, far stranger than he might have imagined. The city was built upon three levels, natural shelves of rock seated at the bottom of the cliffs. Each one was hundreds of feet high, stone stairs carved into the rock that allowed passage between levels. The lowest level adjoined the docks, filled with dozens of brightly painted trading vessels. Further in towards the centre of the crescent, another layer of rock sat above it, and further back still the topmost layer nestled against the curve of the cliff itself. Three enormous ledges covered in colourful houses, twisting towers and dotted with elaborate lifts that seemed to be how merchants moved their wares between layers. Like the first steps of a giant’s staircase, Tol thought in wonder.

  ‘Jhanhar,’ Katarina said quietly. ‘My home.’

  It’s amazing, Tol thought, very nearly saying so until he remembered her instructions. The Moontide was drifting slowly into port, easing out to the northern edge of the docks, the very tip of the crescent. Tol found himself staring up at the cliffs as the ship coasted towards the docks, his eyes drawn to a malformation in the rock at the back of the crescent. The top of the cliffs was another several hundred feet higher than the topmost level of buildings, a jagged line leading from the centre and following the curve of the cliff right to the top. Tol followed the line, gasping softly as he saw a broad castle perched atop the cliff. It looked four storeys high, perched precariously above the city on the northern tip of the cliff’s crescent. The jagged line arcing towards it came into focus as the Moontide slipped into the end berth.